Thermals

by Evan Currie

  Turn left , he thought, racing around the corner, one heat source a hundred meters down the hall.

  He didn’t break pace, his pistol in one hand, the portable in the other. His mind was racing too, trying to remember what was in the direction he was running, if it was something that Abdallah could use to escape. He couldn’t remember, but at the same time he could only assume that it was.

  It didn’t matter though.

  The terrorist was running to something, whether escape or something worse, he had to be stopped. He had to be stopped no matter what, because Anselm wasn’t letting him get away again. The last time he’d been this close had been the Embassy explosion in which Abdallah had been presumed dead.

  The same explosion that had killed twenty eight UN delegates and their parties, and fourteen Interpol Inspectors. An explosion that had nearly claimed Anselm’s life, and had only spared him by the sheerest of dumb luck. A second earlier, or a second later, and he’d have died there along with his entire team.

  Never again.

  Anselm ran faster.

  *****

  “They’re circling. Two groups, Major.”

  “Roger. Pull back, and prepare to lay down suppressive fire. We don’t have the personnel to meet them head to head,” Malcolm responded softly, crawling backwards as he cradled his rifle in the crook of his arms.

  “Roger that.”

  The SAS men faded back, drawing their opponents with them into the vacuum they left in the water soaked hell they had made. The tangos came on, sensing the sudden drop in resistance and smelling blood in the falling water.

  Slowly the men at the edge of Malcolm’s line reported that the groups were coming together again, and Malcolm called a halt to their retreat. When the scouts reported that the groups had almost met, he gave the order.

  Fire and cordite filled the air and was washed away as quickly as it entered, leaving it’s clinging stink on their clothing as the SAS people ruthlessly poured out everything they had left. Malcolm’s rifle clicked on an empty chamber and he dropped the magazine to the ground automatically and reached back for another.

  His hand froze in place as a form appeared out of the haze, assault rifle leveled. The man was grimly glaring at him as he lowered the barrel of the weapon to point dead even with Malcolm’s skull and he shook his head as Malcolm tensed to move.

  Before that happened, however, a voice sounded out of the artificial rain.

  “Ryan!”

  The gunman turned, his eyes jerking to the speaker even as he kept the gun on Malcolm, and the SAS man saw them register surprise.

  “Gwen! I…You’re supposed to be…”

  “Dead? I know.” Gwendolen Dougal said flatly, all emotion drained from her voice as she aimed her MP7 at the gunman. “How could you, Ryan?”

  Ryan Emmerson shrugged, recovering from his momentary surprise. “Jacob asked me to.”

  Gwen blinked, not comprehending the apparent non-sequitur, and the gunman who used to be her boss swung his assault rifle in her direction.

  The MP7 snarled once, letting loose a medium short burst of twenty rounds. The four point six millimeter rounds reached out across the distance that separated them, and stitched the former police chief from hip to sternum, then went on to perforate his body along the lateral midline as he twisted away from the pain in a paroxysm of pain.

  He fell to the ground as Malcolm slapped a fresh magazine into his XM-90 and spared a glance over to where the Police Inspector was staring at the fallen man, steam sizzling from the barrel of her weapon as water fell on the heated surface and boiled instantly away.

  “You ok?”

  She looked at him dully for a second, then just let out a breath she probably hadn’t know she was holding. “Fuck no. Doesn’t matter right now though.”

  Amen , Malcolm thought grimly.

  A-fuckin-men.

  *****

  “Freeze! Abdallah, Freeze!!”

  The terrorist skidded to a stop, lifting his hands easily into the air as the voice called out behind him. He slowly turned around, keeping his eyes in plain sight as he got a look at his pursuer. The Swede was approaching slowly now, that big pistol of his kept out in front as he came a little closer.

  “This is the end of the line, Mr. Gorra,” Anselm said, for the first time using the terrorist’s birth name. “I’m taking you in.”

  “Oh please,” Abdallah sneered, “Can’t you do better than that? Some old movie cliche?”

  “I’m not interested in being original for the likes of you,” Anselm said quietly. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back, Gorra, thumbs up.”

  “Oh no, I think not.” The terrorist growled, turning his hand so Anselm could see that there was a small device secreted in it. “You know me, Swede. I’ve had years to plant the explosives in this place, and you know I won’t hesitate to use them.”

  Anselm grimaced, but his weapon didn’t waver. “You don’t walk out of this one, Gorra. Not again. If you blow this place, it’s coming down on top of you…You’re going to be here, not a mile away.”

  Abdallah’s eyes flashed, “There are thousands of people above us, to say nothing of those who will die in the city when the tower collapses. You can’t bluff me.”

  “Now who’s using the movie cliches?” Anselm smiled suddenly, though it was a grim smile and didn’t reach his eye. “Now what’s my line? Oh yes…Make your move, partner.”

  Abdallah’s eyes flashed, a moment of what Anselm could only think of as true insanity passed through them, and he smiled suddenly, sending a chill through the Interpol Agent’s spine.

  “So be it, Swede!” The terrorist screamed, “I’ve made many martyr’s in my career…so now I will become one!”

  Anselm flinched involuntarily when Gorra pressed down on the button hard, then looked around when nothing happened. He wasn’t the only one, Abdallah was jerking around in all directions as he stared wildly about them.

  “W…What!?”

  Anselm smiled slowly, more genuinely, and relaxed marginally though he kept the gun on his quarry. “You Americans…I’ll give you one thing, you are truly Master gadgeteers.”

  The Terrorist looked at him, no comprehension in his eyes, and Anselm held up his other hand with the Consulate portable in it.

  “You left a lot of information in your computers, Gorra,” He said, “Including a nice list of what frequencies you weren’t jamming. My new friends at the CIA found that with a very simple software patch, it was child’s play to open our frequencies…and kill yours. Knowing you, I knew that you’d have made sure that your explosives were on one of those clear frequencies.”

  Gorra stared in shock, hand dropping as the remote clattered to the ground. Anselm flinched involuntarily as it rattled, even knowing that it was jammed, and almost missed what happened next.

  Gorra, Abdallah, whatever name he wanted to call himself, growled suddenly, his voice rising into a pure scream of rage as he pulled a gun from his waistband and whipped it up.

  Anselm shifted his aim instantly, squeezing the trigger once, and sent a five point seven millimeter round into the terrorist before the pistol was even half way up. The round tunneled into Gorra’s right arm, shattering the ulna and lodging deep in the bone as the man went down and the gun clattered to the ground.

  “Not that easy, you son of a bitch,” Anselm growled as he closed in and kicked the gun away. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, and there’s a line up around the block for the right to put you down…”

  Gorra howled and screamed obscenities at the Interpol officer as he wrenched the injured arm around and used flexi-cuffs to bind it tightly to the good one. Then Anselm jerked him to his feet and began to shove him back down the hall.

  “Raymond Gorra,” He said as his voice echoed through the corridors, “You are under arrest under the Munich Act. You do not have the right to an attorney, you do not have the right to remain silent, and you do not have the right to a speedy trial…though I ha
ve a feeling you’ll get the last one anyway.”

  *****

  Anselm and his prisoner blinked into the light as they stepped out of the dimmed artificial light inside the facility and into the bright sunlight that shone down through the glass encasement of the facility greenhouse. A sound above them caused them both to look up just as three American Commanche attack helicopters flashed by above them, weapons pods deployed as the sleek looking birds buzzed angrily overhead.

  There was the sound of explosions in the distances to tell him that the fight wasn’t over yet, but his part of it was done, or would be as soon as he could turn his prisoner over to the proper authorities. Anselm could already feel the tension high he had been riding begin to flee him, even as he fought tooth and nail to keep it going strong.

  It wasn’t time to relax just yet, he knew, as he pushed Gorra ahead of him toward a huddle of people. Anselm quickly recognized one of the men at the front and waved.

  “Mackenzie!”

  “Interpol,” The SAS man nodded, a half smile on his face as he recognized Anselm, but a serious look in his eyes.

  Anselm looked past him to see a man lying on the ground while another in yellow hazmat gear knelt over him.

  “Guffrey,” the SAS Sniper grunted, following Anselm’s gaze, “He got a lungful of that shit, making sure that no more of it got out than could be helped.”

  Anselm winced, but nodded. “Is he?”

  “Not looking good.”

  The Interpol man let it drop at that, and just gave his prisoner a harder shove than he’d been using. Gorra cried out as he went to his knees and then slammed his injured arm into the ground, but Anselm didn’t spare him any sympathies.

  “This the guy?”

  Anselm nodded, looking around. “Yeah. Raymond Gorra, AKA Abdallah Amir himself.”

  The sniper glared at the terrorist, his fingers playing around with the trigger of the rifle cradled easily in his hands. “You sure you want to bring him in…like that?”

  Anselm didn’t have to ask what ‘that’ meant, he just nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Too bad.” Mackenzie replied.

  “What’s the sitch?” Anselm asked finally, slumping into a tourist bench as he kept an eye, and a gun, on his prisoner.

  “Major and his team just finished up with an assault group trying to get the water stopped,” Mackenzie snorted, “No one told em that it was already too late, I guess. Your Interpol team has the rest of the hostages free on the other side, I don’t know if they lost anyone.”

  Anselm nodded dully.

  “Oh, and that local inspector pulled through, in case you’re interested.” Mackenzie went on, “She’s doing some talking with the few local authorities who don’t appear to have been part of the plan…though I guess we’ll be checking them out when this settles.”

  Anselm nodded again.

  Oh yes, there would be a lot of ‘checking out’ done before this one died down completely.

  “Other than that, well the army’s here I guess,” Mackenzie jerked a thumb skyward as another Comanche buzzed past, “And even if they ain’t Aussie, they seem to be ripping the ever living hell out of anyone dumb enough to keep fighting. Buck up, Interpol. Good guys won.”

  He nodded one last time, flipping open the Consulate portable he was carrying. “Thanks, Mac.”

  “Anytime, Interpol.”

  Anselm only knew one thing for sure…

  This was going to be one hell of a pain in the ass to put down in his mission debrief.

  *****

  Three days later, Anselm stepped softly into a familiar office, smiling slightly as he watched the sole occupant of the police station bent stiffly over her desk working furiously on some piece of work that he was willing to bet was probably inconsequential.

  Gwen Dougal looked up tiredly as the shadow loomed over her, only nodding in recognition. Three days after the final bursts of violence were finally stamped out, and she’d barely managed six hours sleep and was running on less than fumes.

  “Hey, Anselm,” She said as weakly as she felt. “I heard you’re leaving.”

  “Yeah,” The blond man said as he pulled a chair up and straddled it across from her. “They’re finally getting the escort detail down here, and I’m heading it up.”

  “Good.” She said flatly, “I want that piece of dirt out of my town.”

  Anselm half smiled in agreement, and noted that it was truly ‘her town’ in some ways now. Gwen was the only surviving member of the police department who had proved clean. Most of the others had been found dead in various places, their bodies left where they dropped. There was a plan for a large memorial funeral, of course, though men like Ryan Emmerson and his lot were obviously being left out.

  He caught a tremor in her hand as she gestured, however, and the smile died on his lips. He reached out quickly and caught her hand, “You need sleep, Gwen.”

  She shook her head, “Too much to do.”

  “Gwen…” He growled in warning.

  She looked at him, and he matched her stare for stare even as her other hand trembled against the desk until he reached out and covered it with his own. She looked down then, shaking.

  “I can’t,” She admitted, “Been having nightmares.”

  “Normal.” He proclaimed, “Start with a sedative, then talk to someone when you wake up. Don’t leave anything out either… You’ll feel better.”

  She laughed bitterly, “Talk to who?”

  He looked at her for a moment, then pulled his portable out of his pocket. He flipped it open, quickly locating what he was looking for, and highlighted it. “Copy that to your system. It’s the name of a good councilor; she helped me through some tough times a few years ago. I’ll let her know to expect your call.”

  Gwen looked at the portable with the highlighted name for a long moment, the nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Again she laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “God. It’s all nothing, you know?”

  He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, but she didn’t go on until he spoke up, “Know what?”

  “We invested…everything. Our lives,” She said, “into this place. The City, the Tower…it was supposed to be a showcase for a better future. Clean, crime free…God, they were here the whole time! We were making a…a weapon! A weapon for them…How can we fix that thing now?”

  Anselm looked out the window of the station, eyeing the pillar that touched the sky far above them, and sighed.

  “People forget,” He said after a moment.

  This time is was Gwen who had to speak, “What?”

  “People forget,” He repeated, then went on, “that technology…all technology…is just one set of tools after another. Technology isn’t good or evil. It’s an extension of who we are.”

  Gwen didn’t say anything to that, but he wasn’t really expecting her to.

  “Have you ever heard the expression that a sword cuts both ways?” He asked, surprising her.

  She nodded, “Yeah, of course.”

  “It’s incomplete, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “The expression,” He said, “A sword doesn’t cut just two ways. It cuts in as many ways as there are hands to wield it. That’s the point, you know. Technology doesn’t care what way it’s used, it’s not moral, or thinking…We are. So make better use of your little piece of technology than Raymond Gorra did.”

  “Little??” She snarled automatically, then caught herself and smiled slightly as he chuckled. “Ok…Point taken. I think.”

  “Good,” he told her, climbing to his feet. “Now how about I walk you home and you get some sleep. I think that this town’s going to need their police chief in top form to get everything running again.”

  She nodded reluctantly, climbing to her feet as well.

  They headed for the door together, but she stopped about halfway there. “Anselm?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”
>
  Anselm Gunnar nodded slowly, “No problem, Gwen.”

  Then they walked out of the empty police station, closing and locking it behind them, and into the streets under the shadow of the kilometer high tower of power that rose so far above them.

  END

  About the Author

  Thermals is Evan’s first published novel, and the second original work he has completed. A long time fan of science fiction, his love of epic storylines led him to put several million words onto the net in the pursuit of fanfiction stories, and eventually led to the novel you just finished.

  You can connect with Evan Currie online at :

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/tenhawk

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001444124776

  Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/EvanCurrie

  Or at his home on the net :

  http://www.tenhawkpresents.com